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wildly.
    The SWAT officers were piling back into the vans, hustling the LaFleurs back to their limo. With a scream of sirens, the cars backed away and sped off again.
    “Stop them!”
Joey screeched. Spittle was flying from her mouth. “God damn it, Gardener, you’re a fucker just like them. Just like them. You’re letting them kill her.”
    Jerusha had no answer. “I’m sorry,” she told them.
    “Fuck you’re sorry,” said Hoodoo Mama. “And fuck you, too, cunt. You better hope that Bubbles doesn’t die. ’Cause if she does, you’re next.”
    Stellar
Manhattan, New York
    After the meal—after the clink of silverware and the random chorus of burps and satisfied
mmmmm
’s died down, after the last slice ofpumpkin pie had been tucked away (Wally had two pieces), when most of the conversation in the room was a hushed murmur as people slipped collectively into a digestive stupor—Wally excused himself and went over to Lohengrin’s table.
    Klaus was deep in conversation with Babel when Wally clanked up to their table. They must have been discussing something pretty intense because it took them a few seconds to notice Wally. He caught something about New Orleans, Sudan, and the Caliphate before they tapered off to look up at him. Babel grinned. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rustbelt.”
    Wally said, “Thanks. Um, you, too.” He didn’t know her very well, but she made him uncomfortable. He remembered how she’d sabotaged DB when he split with the Committee, and wondered if she’d do the same thing to him, since he and DB were friends.
    Lohengrin yawned. Two empty wine bottles rattled on the table when he stretched his legs. He motioned for Wally to sit and join them. “A good feast,
ja
?”
    “Oh, you bet,” said Wally, taking a chair. “I like them sweet potatoes with the marshmallows on top. Real tasty.” He nodded, and patted his stomach. His cummerbund muted, ever so slightly, the
clang
of iron against iron. “Hey, I have a question.”
    Lohengrin sat a little straighter. “What troubles you, my mighty friend?”
    “Well, see, I was wondering if we’d be doing anything in Africa sometime soon. I mean, you know, the Committee.”
    Babel assumed the tone that people did so frequently around Wally. The tone that spoke volumes about what they thought of him and his faculties. “Well, Rustbelt, it’s a very complicated situation. The Committee’s involvement with Noel Matthews in New Orleans put us on precarious footing with Tom Weathers, and by extension the Nshombos.”
    “Oh, sure. Sure. But I didn’t mean about any of that. It’s just, see, I have this pen pal. My friend Lucien. He and his family live up in the Congo thereabouts.”
    Babel cocked an eyebrow. “Pen pal?”
    “I sponsor him. I send a few dollars every month and it pays for his school and medicine and stuff.”
    “Ah.” Lohengrin nodded. He approved of noble causes.
    “Anyway, his last letter kind of worried me. He was real excited because he’d been chosen to attend a brand-new school. But he said that the soldiers who picked him told him he wouldn’t be allowed to write to me nomore. And that when Sister Julie tried to stop them from taking the last bunch of kids to the school—Sister Julie is a nun in his village, you see—well, he said they hurt her. And I thought, that doesn’t sound right. I mean, what the heck kind of school has soldiers? So I figured, maybe the next time I go somewhere, you could send me to Congo and I could check in on him.”
    Babel said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rustbelt. There’s no telling how Weathers and the PPA would react if they believed the Committee was encroaching on their territory.”
    “But I wouldn’t be, not really. I’d just be visiting Lucien and making sure the little guy is okay.”
    Again, that tone. “Yes, certainly. You know that, and we know that, but the Nshombos would never believe it. And, let’s face it, you aren’t inconspicuous. They’d know you